


thy fearful symmetry

by aerialbots



Series: tyger tyger [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Backstory, Cybertronian Civil War, Eventual Relationships, Family, Fluff, Growing Up, Identity Porn, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-War, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4985482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialbots/pseuds/aerialbots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is born <i>quite</i> the person they are meant to be, and sometimes sparks have to meet more than once to fit just right. Five moments where Prowl and Jazz crossed paths, and the one that kept them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in what distant deeps or skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostandtold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostandtold/gifts).



It starts with a puzzle.

Well, in all fairness, this is a lie. It starts with a ton and a half of sparkling tackling him as he waits in the hall.

 

Jazz has rather advanced sensors for a civilian, but Prowl has dedicated pretty much all three rotations of his short life to learning how to pounce unsuspecting winged mechs -- this is what he was _made for_.

(This, Seekerer will say later, is also a lie. Prowl was made for the single purpose of being cute, small and cuddly, and taking him to the zoo was a terrible mistake his Cree and Carer will never forgive Nightstalker.

Prowl responds to this by refusing to abandon his new post as a Seeker hat for the rest of the day.)

Jazz doesn't screech, but he does go down with a yelp and a very satisfying thud. Prowl has learnt to take his victories where he can get them, especially after that thing with the Lord Protector.

(Lord Megatron had _caught him in mid-air._ Prowl had warred between starstruck awe and indignation at being held like a stray cyberkitten, but his captor had only waited for Cree to get distracted with one of his datapads, and then advised Prowl to aim for the back of the neck next time. And he'd let him sit on his shoulder. Prowl _liked_ Lord Megatron.)

The unsuspecting mech of the day is smaller than Prowl's usual fare -- he's only ever seen racers up close a couple of times, but then again, it's a bit hard for _any_ grounders to get into an eyrie without wings. Cree can only manage it because he's a hover and can get to the lift Seekerer made for him halfway up the helices, and Prowl isn't allowed to leave on his own.

Maybe this one climbed, he muses, sitting on top of his confused prey.

Incidentally, said prey is giving him the most questioning look of his life, considering the mech is wearing a visor.

( _Shiny_ , crows the part of Prowl that runs on Seeker code.

The rest of him slaps that side on the hand before it can do anything stupid.)

"Hello", Prowl says politely, because manners are important.

The mech's mouth twitches, and Prowl feels his field shift under him, though he can't really tell what it means. "Hey yourself. How's the weather up there?"

Prowl frowns, wings raising behind him. "Up where?"

"On top of me, mostly, though if you know what it's like in Kaon right now I wouldn't mind knowing."

"Oh." Prowl sits back, tilts his head, and prods a bit at the Grid. "Currently raining, hot, very windy. Travel not advised within the next nine hours on risk of severe to fatal corrosion without atmo-grade shielding. And--" He tilts his right wing, stretches his sensors to check just in case. "There's no meteorological difference between our locations. We're indoors and the climate is artificially controlled."

The mech _grins_ , bright and easy in a way that makes Prowl think of his Seekerer. "Clever, are we? What's your name?"

Prowl is not supposed to talk to strangers. But no strangers get into the eyrie, and he saw Carer tell the mech to wait in the hall. But--

Oh. Loopholes.

"Hunter", he says, and is proud when his wings only twitch a little at the tiny lie.

The mech's face does that funny thing again. "Hunter, is it?"

Prowl doesn't waver, though he probably sounds a bit defensive. "Yes. What's your designation?"

"I'm Jazz", the mech says, no modifiers at all, and Prowl wonders at the myriad of meanings that unravel from the single glyph. Names don't lie, Carer always says. _Loopholes_ , Prowl thinks again. "Are you gonna let me up?"

Prowl considers this. "Will you tell me your name then?"

Jazz laughs, this time, a deep sound that makes his engines rumble under Prowl. He's loud under the unassuming black paint, but it doesn't make Prowl anxious as it usually does.

(He thinks about acceleration and paint transfers, and very determinedly doesn't wince.)

"Tell you what", Jazz says, sitting up just enough to lean on his elbows, but not dislodge Prowl from his place on his chest. "I'll give you something even better."

Prowl looks at him, halfway between curious and wary; he's been tricked before by Cree's brother, and though Jazz doesn't look like a "filthy, filthy cheat", as Seekerer likes to call Siren, one can never be too sure. "How so?"

Fractionation had explained to Prowl two stations ago how most sleights of hand worked -- subspace and diversions, he'd said, demonstrating with Prowl's favourite holo-hex. Prowl's wings still flare with surprise when Jazz twirls his wrist showily, opening his hand to reveal a little brass sphere.

"Tada!", Jazz grins. Prowl tilts his head, looking at him expectantly, and the mech huffs a little laugh. "Talk about hard crowds. Know what this is, Hunter?" Prowl shakes his head, can't help but peer at the sphere. "It's called a turnbox. I have a friend who makes puzzles that are very difficult to solve, and he asked me to find someone who can do this one."

Prowl glances between Jazz and the turnbox, barely resisting the urge to make a grab for it. "Have you found it yet?"

"Nope", Jazz says, sounding rather too cheerful about admitting failure. "So, how about this: I'm gonna give you the puzzle, and you're gonna let me up. And", he adds, smiling at Prowl's skeptical look, "if you manage to solve it, I'll tell you my designation proper."

"Oh", Prowl says, sensor wings flicking once. He does like puzzles, especially ones that are hard to solve. Everything gets boring very easily. Although... "You couldn't do it either?"

Jazz smiles again, visor flashing once. Prowl isn't sure what that means. "Does it matter?"

Prowl frowns. "Cree says it's rude to answer a question with another question."

That gets another chuckle out of Jazz, and it only makes Prowl frown harder. "Sorry. I _am_ a little bit rude, I'm afraid."

"Hmph." Then again, Carer has said pouncing strangers is a bit rude, too. Prowl decides not to push his luck. "Alright."

"What was that, sorry?"

"I said _alright_ ", Prowl says, drawing out the word, and feels pleased when Jazz laughs again.

"Very well. Your prize, ser", Jazz acquiesces, spinning the turnbox between his fingers and handing it to him. Prowl takes it carefully, noting the weight and feel of it, and the way it fits both his hands where Jazz could hide it in one. There are engravings all over it, a dark burnish against the not-quite-gold of its surface, and when he runs a finger over one of the dots near the center, it clicks, and sinks, and the rest of the layer reconfigures itself around it.

Prowl squeaks, wings flaring behind him; Jazz's visor flashes again before he smiles. "Huh. Who would've thought, maybe it was a good idea to give it to you."

The dot refuses to budge again, but Prowl finds he can slide the thin bands surrounding the puzzle from side to side, different symbols forming as he turns it around. He doesn't know what any of them mean. "What are these for?"

"That's for you to find out", Jazz replies solemnly. "Though if you line it up like that it says 'all hail the glow cloud'." Prowl narrows his optics, but Jazz just grins up at him. "My, that's a lot of suspicion for such a tiny mech. You sure you're not secretly a really grumpy minicon?"

Tiny white wings wiggle pointedly behind Prowl's back, though he can't really keep a giggle off his voice. "I'm a _Praxian_. I've been bigger than a minicon since I was sparked."

"I wouldn't be so inclined to believe you if you hadn't been crushing me for the past ten minutes", Jazz sighs, letting his upper body flop back dramatically and pretending to struggle under his weight.

Prowl tilts his head, starts to scan Jazz-- and stops a second later, practically hearing Cree's warm, amused voice tell him he seems to have forgotten his manners in his room, and maybe he'd like to go search for them instead of poking their guests.

Still, he's at least moderately sure Jazz's total weight is _at least_ nine times his own, so he can't actually be crushing him, and he nearly tells Jazz as much, until he notices the traces of humour flicking through his field.

"You're laughing at me", he accuses, wings drooping the tiniest bit.

"What? Oh no, no, bitty, it's not like that", Jazz assures him, raising himself again on his elbows. "It's just a silly joke, Hunter. I was trying to laugh _with_ you."

Prowl looks at him for a moment, thinks about his Cree or Seekerer's comments that sometimes confuse him, and make his other carers get upset or quiet.

"Hmph." Prowl says. Jazz looks a bit distressed, and opens his mouth to speak again.

Prowl boops him.

He flicks his wings in a question, after, but Jazz seems to be too busy laughing himself silly to pay attention.

"You're the most confusing thing I have seen this whole rotation", Jazz says, but he's smiling as he says it, and Prowl knows better than anyone that always understanding everything is really, _really_ boring.

"I'm interesting", he says, which seems to be an appropriate response, because it makes Jazz grin again.

"That you are."

Prowl nods, satisfied, then swings off Jazz's chest. There's a big white scratch on his shiny black paint, and a bunch of smaller scuffs, and he's pretty certain he'll get scolded for pouncing on visitors again, but...

Well, it's kind of hard to be too worried when he's already dying to figure out his new puzzle.

" _Primus_ , do forgive me, I'm afraid with Nightstalker off-planet and Atlas going back and forth to Iacon, I don't know where half of everything is", Carer apologises, returning to the hall with a datapad and a box roughly of Prowl's size. "It's a wonder we haven't lost-- oh, hi there, sweetspark, I thought you had gone to the terrace."

"Snacktime", Prowl says, then adds, maybe a bit too pleased with himself, "I ate all the purple jellies."

Jazz snorts, and Carer laughs, crouching down to hand Jazz the box. Prowl scampers up onto Carer's shoulder as they discuss whatever it is Jazz is taking, burrows into the little dip that serves as one of Carer's smaller turbines in altmode and Prowl's favourite snuggling spot the rest of the time. As soon as Carer's mind is free of whatever concern he had about deliveries, however, he seems to notice the white transfers on Jazz's chest.

Prowl can literally _feel_ the moment he's in trouble.

"Sweetspark", Carer says slowly, and Prowl wishes they were the same shade of white so he could blend in with his carer's frame. "Were you pouncing on visitors again?"

"Um", he says, trying and failing not to fidget. "Maybe?" Then, because he's immediately assaulted with a terrible, overwhelming guilt, "Yes, Carer."

Carer sighs, wings drooping slightly, and Prowl shrinks a tiny bit into himself. "And what have we said about it?"

"...nottadoetannapologise."

"Pardon?"

"Not do it anymore", Prowl mumbles, only a bit more intelligibly. "And to apologise." He glances at Jazz from his perch, hugs his turnbox closer to his chest. "I'm sorry for streaking your paint." Jazz's mouth twitches, but Carer clicks at Prowl and doesn't seem particularly impressed by his embarrassed whirs, though he does let him hide a bit further down into his shoulder. "And I'm sorry for pouncing you at all."

He hears Jazz chuckle, and peeks at him from behind Carer's shoulder. He's smiling again. "It's no problem. Though you might like to listen to your creator when he says no to something."

"I thoroughly agree, you know?", Carer stage-whispers, and Prowl flickers his wings, bumping his chevron against Carer's cheekguard a bit sheepishly.

"I can try?", he offers, and Carer laughs, so he figures it's a good enough answer.

"Do forgive us", Carer smiles ruefully to Jazz. "I'm afraid he takes far too much after his Seekerer for anyone's peace."

"Eh, don't worry. You should've seen the kinds of merry hell I raised at his age", Jazz says, cheerfully waving away the apology with a flick of his hand. "I better get on with this, though", he adds, pointedly lifting the box on his other arm. "If that'll be all, at least."

"Yes, quite. Let me show you down, if you will. Prowl?", Carer asks, and Prowl shakes his head, staying in place. The turnbox can wait a bit, if only for the sake of getting a ride groundside and back up.

Jazz's visor flashes, though, and a grin spreads slowly over his face. "Prowl?"

Prowl instinctively looks Jazz's way at the mention of his name, then drops his head onto Carer's shoulder again, barely resisting the urge to whine. _Busted._

Carer just smiles though, affection clear in his voice, unaware that Jazz isn't just amused at the coincidence. "Well, as much as I think he's a sweetspark, his actual designation seems to fit him just well, don't you think?"

"Oh, definitely", Jazz agrees, vocals lilting with laughter. "He's a little hunter alright."

Prowl narrows his optics, looks at him reproachfully from his spot, but in the end Jazz's grin is so contagious he can't help but smile back, just a little bit.

 

(It's only later, when he's back in his room working on the turnbox, that Prowl realises he never asked how to find Jazz to tell him he solved the puzzle.)


	2. when the stars threw down their spears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stranger-Danger situation warning for this chapter -- absolutely _nothing_ happens beyond someone setting off Prowl's creeper radar and giving him a scare, but I felt it was pertinent to put it out there. Also, minor allusions to terrorism, because this _is_ pre-war and Prowl has a member of the government for a parent.

Escaping an eyrie is, in fact, far harder than it seems -- and there's not a single person who will assume it is easy to begin with.

Then again, most people don't dedicate about 60% of their waking time to learning how to be quieter, faster, more careful.

Prowl's usually less angry, though. He blames this for the two near-slips on his way down -- one with a security camera, the other with his Carer himself. Had Carer not been as distracted as he was, Prowl would have surely been noticed.

As it stands, he's stepping from the lift and slipping behind an arch at the eyrie's base before it fully hits him that he's _done it._ He left the eyrie on his own and managed to not get caught. It feels as though he's cheated, somewhat, because he's aware that had Cree not been too busy appeasing the masses he would have seen through his behaviour in a second -- but then again, his creator is the entire reason he left to begin with.

The outcome is the same, though, regardless of means, and so Prowl flicks his wings to himself once -- maybe a bit too sharply -- and adjusts the chromatophores in his plating, just enough that recognising him won't be quite so easy, then steps out into the light of the carefully maintained road.

He doesn't waste time with a calming breath. Prowl transforms near-soundlessly, then speeds away from home.

He may not have left on his own before, but he will be fine. He has a plan.

 

 

It doesn't take long for Prowl to realise his plan did not involve the right amount of consideration to one tiny, extremely important fact.

He is completely _terrified_ of crowds.

Somehow the zoo had always seemed emptier when Seekerer had taken him -- which, Prowl thinks rather shakily, may have been related to the fact that his carer was a Delta class Seeker who was also, in hindsight, probably always armed to the bolts.

He desperately wants to go home, but the mere idea of going back right now makes him feel like screaming. In the end, he manages to slip away from the droves of tourists and sparklings with their creators, not stopping until he arrives at an abandoned enclosure -- completely, blessedly alone, save for the wide, bed-like bench under the empty dome.

Prowl hasn't cried since he was a sparkling. He's never been one for it, frankly, hates the numb tension that claws at his plating when he loses control of his electromagnetics like that, and yet when he looks down from the crystals in the dome, he finds his entire body shaking, static caught in his vocaliser.

He doesn't want to cry, but he didn't _want_ to get overwhelmed, either, didn't want his creator to go and get in trouble with people who would try to _hurt_  him, he--

He goes absolutely still at the sound of steps behind him.

"Why, hello there", says the stranger, overly-sweet, and Prowl's plating _crawls _.__ "Are you lost, sweetspark?"

"I am fine", Prowl says curtly, standing up as calmly as he can. He twists his voice into something closer to Seekerer's, makes sure to keep his wings high -- and _oh,_ what he wouldn't give right now to be several rotations older and a few upgrades taller already. The other comes into view as he turns, all delicate greens and yellows and too-cold optics on a large Praxian frame, and the fact that even _he_ can see the calculating light in the mech's face, despite his trouble deciphering people's expressions, brings him no comfort. The only exit is being blocked, and so Prowl remains where he is, not wanting to get any closer. "I would appreciate being left alone."

"Oh, but you looked so _sad_ just a moment ago", the mech says, voice as soft as the first drops of acid rain before a storm, stepping the slightest bit closer and still blocking the exit. "I wouldn't want to leave you distressed like that..."

Prowl suppresses the urge to clench his hands, forces civility rather than defensiveness to lace his words. "I appreciate your intentions, but I must insist--"

"Nightsky, sweetspark", a deep voice cuts in behind the mech, and Prowl can't help the flash of panic in his optics-- "Come now, your carer’s waiting for us."

The only thing that stops Prowl from melting with relief just then is the fact that he's still absolutely _terrified._

"I-- yes, sorry", he says, wings tilting in a shaky smile towards his rescuer. The mech has no wings, but flashes him a comforting look, undeterred by the other Praxian for all that he's nearly half his size. "I just needed some air."

The shorter mech smiles tersely, but his visor flashes a warm, soothing purple. "That’s fine, bitlet, but next time ask one of your brothers." The warmth vanishes with a single look at the other mech, something sharper in its place. "Now, if you'd excuse us..."

The mech moves, giving Prowl a smile that could corrupt _crystals_ , and makes him feel just about as filthy. "Of course. You two have a nice day."

 _Composure_ , Prowl reminds himself, and only barely manages not to drag his saviour away.

 

 

It takes a wave of comfort from the other's field for Prowl to realise he's shaking hard enough for his armour to rattle.

"I-- I'm sorry, I'm fine", he assures the mech, pulling his field in even as he moves closer, plating trembling, to let a group of carers and sparklings pass.

His companion's visor flashes, but the look he receives is not judgemental. "It's alright. Name’s Improv, by the way."

Prowl vents hard, shakes his wings in a pointless attempt to rid himself of the awful numbing feeling on his plating. "Hunter. Ironically enough. Thank you for..." His vocaliser catches around the words, dissolving them into static, and he resets it with another vent. "For everything back there."

"Not a problem", Improv replies, just kind enough to soothe without making him uncomfortable. "Though I would not recommend walking around on your own right now. Lots of bad stuff going on in these parts."

Prowl's wings twitch the slightest bit, concern and anger pushing at his anxiety. "If you are talking about what happened with the senator, I am fairly sure no assassins will be coming for me, mediocre or not."

Improv snorts, his visor brightening with it. "I'll say. Lucky he went and bonded with a Seeker, out of all things."

"Trined", he corrects, mouth pressed into a hard line. "For all the good it has done him."

"Well, he isn't dead yet", Improv says, and tilts his head when this only makes Prowl frown harder. "You're pretty into politics for your age, huh?"

"What? No, I just..." _Lie, you half-bit,_ lie. "A family friend works as his aide. If it had gone any differently..."

"Ah, right", he nods understandingly. "I'm sure they've got some pretty good security measures in place, though -- so far he's the first senator in _eras_ to not have gotten hospitalised even once in their seat."

It startles Prowl so much he nearly smacks into somebody's wing. "I... did not realise it was such a common occurrence."

Improv smiles, amused but not derisive. "Well, it's probably the kind of thing your carers don't want you to hear about."

"You have _no idea_ ", Prowl mutters, and it gets a laugh out of his companion.

"Ahh, so you're part of the overprotected masses, then. How’d you get your carers to let you out today of all days?" Prowl's wing twitches before he can quite help it, and Improv _grins._ “Ooh, and the plot thickens! Let me guess -- you've just committed some heinous crime worthy of death, and are now on the run from both home and the law."

"What? No", Prowl says, laughing for the first time in two days, and struggles to keep a smile under check. "Nothing so serious, I merely..." He vents, shifts the cant of his wings into something harder to parse. "I needed to get out. Just for a moment. I did not anticipate my reaction to being around so many people, however, nor anyone taking any notice of me."

Improv shakes his head. "Look, bitty, not to burst your bubble, but… you go out of your place all huffy and tense, looking like you’ve just come off the production line? You’re gonna get in trouble, be it in here, Kaon or Tyger Pax itself. And you’re missing a good bunch of upgrades if you’re hoping to intimidate anyone.”

Prowl’s wings droop a fraction of a degree. “I… understand. I suppose I didn’t plan this as well as I thought.”

“Nah. Well, I mean, yeah, but you didn’t know better”, Improv says with a half-smile. “Like I said, overprotected masses. You can tell by the air of naiveté and the smell of fancy polish.”

Prowl huffs, mock-affronted. “I’ll have you know I use unscented polish. It’s better for one’s paint.”

Improv laughs. “I stand corrected, then, oh working-class friend of mine. Now, not that I don’t enjoy wandering around with a snarky minor, but I would rather, y’know, not end up in prison when your carers find out. You’re a nice kid and all, but it’d be even nicer if neither of us got into trouble.”

”Ah”, Prowl winces, not quite managing to stop the embarrassed tilt of his wings. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to just let me go off by myself?”

”Sure! I can also get you some high-grade, if you like”, Improv agrees, grinning unrepentantly when Prowl groans. “Or some hallex, or-- ohhh, how about a tessera? All kids want a tessera, right, they’re so cuddly and full of dentae--”

Prowl’s only consolation is that beaming Improv his address is enough to make him stop talking, even if it doesn’t get that smile off his face.

 

 

He enters the eyrie much in the same way he left it -- quietly and with his processors chasing a thousand threads at once. A memory he can’t quite place keeps distracting him, however, something about Improv’s frame as he waved at the departing lift before turning away seeming… oddly familiar, though Prowl can’t understand why.

Or maybe it’s just what Improv had said to him.

_’Try talking it out, next time they upset you.’_

_’They’re not_ supposed _to upset me.’_

_’Well, you aren’t supposed to run away.’ A flash of a smile, softening uncomfortable truths. ‘They’re people, Hunter. They make mistakes. Be kinder to them when they do.’_

When the lift’s doors open, Seekerer is waiting.

“I think we need to talk”, he says quietly, optics dim. He’s still covered in scratches, even if his wings and side have been patched up. He looks the most tired Prowl’s ever seen him.

Regret flares in his spark, heavier than lead. “I… think so, too.”

Seekerer makes a noise that’s too thick to be a sigh, kneels down as close to Prowl’s height as he can manage with three classes and several eras’ difference between them. “Are you okay?”

”I…” Prowl’s field wobbles with his effort not to cry -- ‘be kind’ is probably not synonymous with ‘become a lump of electromagnetic anguish on your carer’. “Yes. I was not harmed.” Seekerer’s -- _Nightstalker’s_ wings droop, his entire frame seeming to loosen as he exhales, and it’s only then that Prowl realises how _terrified_ his carer has to have been. “Are… are _you_ okay?”

”I--”, Seekerer blinks, then starts laughing, a helpless sort of sound Prowl’s not used to hearing from him -- but then there are arms around him, gathering him close to his carer’s spark, and he’s too busy melting with relief to care. “You’re as bad as your _creator_ , I swear to the Unmaker-- stop giggling, you oversized minibot, I’m gonna start doing as your carer and carry you around in my cockpit all the time.” Prowl snorts quietly -- he’s heard that threat nearly every day of his life -- and Seekerer sighs again, cheekspar resting gently on top of his head, as if for reassurance. “Runs away defenseless to the blasted city and _I’m_ the one he’s worried about. Yes, Hunter. I’m more than okay now.”

”Good”, Prowl mumbles, clinging a little to his carer’s shoulder. He’s probably getting grounded for this, but that just means he will have to be close to his creators all the time.

He can’t really bring himself to mind.


	3. and thy heart began to beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Assassin's Tango -- John Powell.

The lift opens on Atlas' floor with a quiet chime; Prowl needs but a fraction of a second to sidestep the stranger in front of him in two short, smooth movements, hyper-awareness a gentle thrum at the back of his mind. His body half-spins in a subtle curve as he moves away, but it's the responding motion from the mech taking his place on the lift that gets his attention as their near-collision turns into an improvised dance, their steps mirroring each other so perfectly they might have been choreographed.

Prowl's optics sharpen, glancing up and clashing with a shade of gold so close to that of his own they might be identical, the mouth on the visored face curving up in a tiny, amused grin. The mech on the lift flashes their visor at him, something about the gesture familiar and electrifying -- but before he can process it fully his creator's voice beckons him over his shoulder, and by the time he's looked back the doors are sliding closed, a flash of molten gold before they shut completely the only sign that he did not imagine the entire brief, odd encounter.

There's still things to be done, so he pushes it all to a lower layer of his processes -- and if he glances at the hallway door once or twice as he discusses his training progress with Cree, well. The Praxus Law Enforcement Academy is famous for being viciously hard on its students, and Prowl will first collapse from exhaustion than admit he's the slightest bit tired. Atlas can forgive him being a little distracted.


	4. burnt the fire of thyne eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After literally a year of writer's block with the same 600 words, I ended up rewriting the first half of this in one sitting and the rest throughout a week.
> 
> As always, this goes to lostandtold, for being the best gal I could ask for (and the most patient too), and to anyone who commented/kudos'd during Hiatusgate. Ilu all ♡

There's no use in tying himself into knots over something he can't control, Prowl knows, but try as he might, he finds himself unable to calm down.

He's long past fidgeting, is the thing -- it's neither dignified nor discreet, which means it was out of the question from the moment he reached his final developmental stage. Going still is harder to accomplish, but easier to pass off as inattention rather than anxiety.

He still hasn't logged out from his precinct on the Grid; the less affected he seems right now, the better.

On the station holoscreens Lord Megatron's speech completes another loop, his mouth set on a thin line as he glares at the mechs opposite him on the Senate Chamber, the echo of the last of his scathing remarks hanging like ghosts in the ensuing silence. A news commentator appears as the recording shrinks and is replaced by various frames from different points in the Senate, but Prowl can't focus on her words -- can't do anything but stare, painfully still and increasingly tense, as the screen shows a handful of seconds from the stairs spiraling down and away from the building.

Or rather, as Nightstalker's wings tilt back slightly as he reaches for Lord Megatron -- only to be abruptly pushed away.

The two of them stand frozen for a moment, Megatron’s hand around Nightstalker’s wrist, the reality of it sinking in, before Megatron starts to turn and the recording switches to the inside of the Chamber again. Some Senator at least two of Prowl’s creators have wished to punch into another galaxy is spewing nonsense about instability and whether Primus-given leaders can be trusted to be what they say, AllSpark or no, as though the actual issue isn’t the fuel shortage and most of the Senate’s steamrolling of any legitimate solution to the problem.

As though the mech who used to carry Prowl around on his shoulder, the one who used to lead every festival in the Sonic Canyons, and who has defended their planet from four separate invasions isn’t being demonised for trying to make things right.

"Ghastly stuff, isn't it?", whispers the mech on the seat next to his, and Prowl can't bring himself to even pretend agreement -- he just stands up and makes his way across the terminal to the nearest cafe, which is as far as he can get from their words without losing his train.

He's not sure what he orders, or if he even manages to 'not death-stare the civilians', as Volley says, but a few moments later he's got a cube of something warm in his hands and is sitting close to the door, carefully positioned to be in sight of the announcements screen. Whatever's in his cube is sweet and tastes faintly of nitrogen, and Prowl drinks it in slow sips, watching people walk by without truly seeing them.

It's just a few hours, he tells himself. Just long enough to get to Iacon, and then the world will start making sense again.

Diction's words are ringing in his audios, just like the scene from the Senate's staircase won't leave his sight no matter how many times he resets his optics, and Prowl's hands hold his cube a little tighter, lower it to the table with affected calm.

 _Things are... complicated right now_ , Diction had said, the only one of his creators Prowl could contact right then -- and, ironically enough, the only one off-planet. _All this talk of corruption has been going on for longer than you've been alive, sweetspark, it’s just no one had managed to get proof before. The Lord Protector's reach only goes so far, and he isn’t the kind who takes helplessness easily. Neither is Nighter, I’m afraid._

 _Nor am I_ , thinks Prowl, and counts the minutes until boarding.

 

 

The drive from Praxus to Iacon takes approximately a day, depending on one’s alt, an air shuttle takes around three cycles. The bullet train takes eight.

It is still eight cycles too long, but it’s comfortable, at least, and fairly empty thanks to the unholy hour of the morning. There’s only two other people sharing his set of seats, a sleek grounder model who seems very entertained by the passing scenery and a visored mech silently tapping one foot to some rhythm only they can hear.

There’s only the desert, outside. Prowl can’t say he sees the appeal.

 

 

About half the other passengers step out of the train at the Vos border station, one of his silent companions among them. The other one disappears for a moment, as well, and Prowl initially assumes they have gone with the rest, but they return with a handful of sweets just a second before the doors start closing again. The transport class mech taking them to Iacon announces they’ll be arriving in approximately four cycles.

Prowl belatedly regrets not doing like his seatmate and ducking out for something to snack on; he’d only seen the news when he returned to the precinct, right at the end of the graveyard shift, and in his haste to get to his family the idea of eating had not even crossed his mind. Now, tired and hungry and all too aware that only a few cycles ago he’d been tackled across a bridge by a couple of alarmingly strong minicons, he can’t help but wish drama would happen at less irregular times.

A tap on his foot breaks him out of his reverie.

“Want some?”, the mech across him asks, shaking a pack of energon jellies in his direction.

Prowl watches him suspiciously, hunger and all -- partly because of pride, but mostly because the last time he’d trusted anything blindly was just before someone tried to drop a bomb on his creator.

The mech just smiles, their visor a cheery yellow. “I don’t bite, promise. I just get snacky on long rides, thought I should share.”

The enforcer in him wants to scan the sweets for anything dangerous; the Diction in his conscience is despairing at his lack of manners.

Upbringing wins.

“Thank you”, Prowl says, taking the little box, and can’t help but find the other mech’s pleased grin a little comforting. “I appreciate it.”

His companion leans back on their seat, opens a bag of rust sticks. “Don’t think about it. Long day?”

“Can you tell?”, Prowl asks, aiming for humour and falling somewhere closer to exhausted -- which is more or less why he never tries to socialise with anyone.

“Just a little”, the mech says, around both a smile and a yellow rust stick that matches their eyes, then points the remaining half at him. “Eat the jellies, it’ll help.”

Prowl doesn’t quite smile, but it’s a close thing, and shakes the box a little until he can fish out a purple jelly. His wings relax the tiniest fraction, as do his hands, and the stranger hums around another sweet.

“So what’s taking you to Iacon? Business, pleasure, running from the authorities...?”

“What? No”, Prowl says, a thread of laughter in his voice, and he sends the mech a proximity ping, the markers above his name quite clear. “That would be rather complicated, given I _am_ the authorities.”

“Nah, you’re only one authority. One and a half, maybe”, the mech -- Staccato, according to the ping he sends back -- shoots Prowl’s wings an amused look. “If you count those, at least.”

Prowl lowers both of the wings in question just to be facetious, which makes Staccato snicker, and eats some more sweets.

It doesn’t stop him overthinking, but… it’s nice.

 

 

They sit in silence for a while, Prowl as still as possible and Staccato in an oddly elegant sprawl Prowl knows better than to ever try to imitate. He tries his creators’ comms once more, then twice, again to no result.

There’s another tap on his pede. “You look way too stressed for a train ride.”

Prowl glares before he can help himself, instinct making him sharper than he should be. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

Staccato’s visor flashes, though Primus knows what that’s supposed to mean, because his voice isn’t angry when he speaks again.

“You don’t, but I doubt whoever’s waiting for you would want you tearing yourself to pieces.”

Ah, so he’s one of _those_ people. And this had been going relatively well so far.

“Is this where you tell me we are all one under Primus and you can tell my aura is troubled?”, Prowl asks, more dry than annoyed, and leans back against his seat.

Staccato laughs. And laughs. And doesn’t stop laughing until his vocaliser is producing nothing but static, a hint of electromagnetics hitting Prowl’s ankles like early morning sunshine on his wings.

Prowl makes a face. “It wasn’t that funny.”

Staccato wheezes some more. “Oh Primus-- trust me, mech, _yes it was_ \--” A lone giggle, then that bright grin again. “I’d tell you, really, but you’d need to pass a secret test.”

“I have heard that one before”, Prowl says dryly, thinking of the little puzzle in his subspace, less of a hope and more of a reminder of easier times, nowadays.

“Ah, well”, Staccato says, odd in some way Prowl can’t really quantify, and he worries briefly he may have offended him somehow. “How about a quiz, then?”

Then again, maybe not.

“I think I will pass”, Prowl says primly, a hint of something less serious in his optics. “But if it worries you so much, I will eat sweets while overthinking. Would that be any better?”

"If you must”, Staccato sighs, shaking his head, but he seems to find Prowl only eating the purple jellies hilarious, if his face is anything to go by.

Prowl doesn’t care, the red ones are disgusting and the blue ones taste like falling off a cliff facefirst.

 

 

The rest of the ride seems to fly by. Prowl doesn’t ever quite relax, but whenever Staccato’s pede touches his own, he touches back, if only so he’ll be allowed to worry at his leisure. At some point the box of purple-less jellies is replaced by a new one, and when Prowl looks up his companion is cheerfully eating the other two colours out he refused to take.

Prowl flicks his wings at him, but he’s smiling as he looks to the window.

And then, just before the train starts slowing down to stop at the station, an incoming comm flashes over Prowl’s display, and he nearly collapses with relief upon seeing Nighter’s frequency.

_Seekerer?_

_Hey there, little hunter_ , says Nighter’s voice in his audios, tired and subdued but otherwise well, and Prowl breathes again for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, shakes his head to reassure Staccato that he’s not actually having some sort of breakdown. _A little bird told us you might come visit._

 _Once again, Carer can’t be trusted with a secret_ , Prowl sighs, but knows his meaning will get across. Are you…?

 _A little worn at the edges_ , Nightstalker admits. _But we’ll be fine, I promise. When are you arriving?_

Around him, the train slows to a gentle stop, the sound of the doors unlocking followed by a long chime before the transport mech announces their station.

 _...now?_ , Prowl replies, a sheepish smile in his voice, if not his face.

Nighter’s laugh is like a lullaby. _Figures. Hold still, I’m coming to get you. Usual station?_

_Mhm. Just give me a minute, I need to…_

The seat across is empty, save for a candy box.

_Oh._

It’s not that they became friends, or anything of the sort, really.

_Hunter? What is it?_

He’d just have liked to say goodbye.

 _It’s… nothing, I apologise_ , he says, keeping his disappointment from showing. _There are just a lot of people._

_At this time? Odd. But don’t worry, I’m on my way._

He nods, though he knows it can’t be communicated, and gets out of his seat, pauses.

Prowl glances at the now empty train, and pockets the box into subspace before stepping out to the station, making his way to one of the lifts for the landing pads.

 

 

Later, after reassurances and late breakfast and some quiet conversation, safe in his old room, Prowl takes the box out again, turns it in his hand.

 _prowler:_  
_your aura’s just fine._  
_s_

Prowl’s mouth turns, just a private half smile, and he settles down for some very belated recharge.

 

 

(He does eat the jellies later, but he doesn’t throw out the box. Nighter and Atlas help with the red and blue ones.)


	5. in the forests of the night

There’s a sense of urgency to the darkness.

Prowl is used to vivid, sprawling dreams, all the intensity and emotions he tries so hard to control while awake unleashing the moment he recharges. He doesn’t particularly mind them, in a way even welcomes the respite. He never feels overwhelmed in his dreams. Even if he can’t understand them, his subconscious does.

This is not it.

A terrible sound batters his audios, deep and chilling to his very spark, a waterframe’s seasong twisted and bent into desperate mourning; no matter how many times he resets his optics, all he sees are splotches of light through cracked glass. He can feel the heat and hear the crackle of fire, though, buildings groaning and creaking under the wailing of jets outside, heat and smoke an unforgiving filter on what little he can process of his surroundings. Prowl could recognise the knife-sharp roar of Seeker twin engines among a hundred others in a spark spin, was lulled into recharge by it countless times as a sparkling, but this time -- oh, this time it sends his spark whirling desperately in its casing, twisting him from the inside out whenever the sound gets closer.

A quick scan reveals there’s no one in the building but himself, but he has no idea why the thought fills him with relief. He can’t fathom why his mind would conjure such a situation, and yet-- his processors insist he is not dreaming.

Praxus is burning.

That familiar roar slices through the air again, and Prowl doesn’t mean to flinch, but he does -- or rather his body tries, and is stopped by what feels like several tonnes of debris.

Two hundred and thirteen point seven of them, to be precise. The alerts flooding his internal display are very insistent this is a bad thing, but it’s hard to focus on anything past the pain and exhaustion. Smoke and dust are clogging his vents, slowly raising his core temperature to dangerous levels, and for all the enforcers’ standard modifications, Prowl is not a heavy duty frame, nor is he equipped for prolonged proximity to this kind of flames.

Moving _hurts_ , too, so much that his inner display lags as warnings cascade onto it at anything beyond his slightest twitch. Prowl thinks there may be something spearing through his right leg, or at least that’s what it feels like, and he’s fairly sure from the lack of sensation one of his wings has been torn from its struts.

He needs to get out of here. The wailing has yet to stop, and missing sensor wing or not, he’s still an enforcer. He _needs_ to find a way to help, even if it’s only with evacuation in his current state, and--

The telltale whine sings of the Seekers’ return, but the roar of explosives masks their departure; the few remaining windows shatter as the foundations shake. The rush of air is no reprieve, however, with as many fires as there are outside, and the temperature keeps rising, swift and steady as death.

Prowl blacks out again.

 

 

(He learns what followed, after, but at the time there’s nothing but gratefulness for the reprieve. As his systems start to shut down the heat no longer feels so unbearable, the sounds of a world no longer familiar gradually smothered by silence, washed down into a quiet like Kalis’ cool, dark seas.

But then... Well.

Then comes the rest of his life.)

 

 

 _\--ould’ve stayed little_ , someone’s is saying, strained, and memory and static pull at Prowl’s awareness in equal measure, _you’d be easier to drag outta-- oh, you’re--_ good, _yes, I_ knew _you were too stubborn to die on me._

Prowl hurts too much to be dead, but he’s not so sure about hallucinating -- or the world being mostly blue, and orange, and upside down.

_That’d be the fire, and I was trying to-- never mind, can you transform?_

He can ask his multitude of questions later. _Let me try._ He shifts onto his side as well as he can manage, systems screaming at him over potential damage to already-ruined components, his wrecked vocaliser swallowing his cry when his wounds protest the transformation.

Transform he does, though.

His saviour shifts into his own altmode, slips past Prowl silent but for the dry sound of wheels on debris, but at least he doesn’t need optics to see in vehicle form. _Follow me, we need to get into the tunnels._

_The city--_

_Is lost already,_  the mech says, and is kind enough not to mention Prowl’s faltering as they wave through the ruined maze the attack has left behind. _Evacuation is as close to over as it will get, which you would know if you hadn’t been so heavily concussed it’s a wonder you remember how to drive._

 _I remember--_ , Prowl starts, and is assaulted by a sudden cascade of fragmented memories. _The Archives. They targeted the Grid servers first, cut us off from long-range communications. We were already evacuating when help arrived._

The flames diminish as they take to the lower levels, streets of old tucked underground as newer buildings were erected long before Prowl’s creation. It’s cooler, if not cold, kinder on his overtaxed systems, every level descended smothering the sounds of the distant skies.

 _This wasn’t the only city_ , is the eventual response, and Prowl’s spark flares with grief, dread rising in him over what he already suspects. _Kaon didn’t fall as much as it surrendered willingly. Vos, too. Altihex and Helex were hit simultaneously, and Lord Megatron--_

 _Don’t_ , Prowl says quietly, suddenly sick to his spark. Too many losses are pulling at his seams, and with their planetary comms down, there’s no way for anyone to contact him in Praxus’ underbelly. A great many cycles separate them from Tyger Pax -- far too many, he knows, to indulge in sentimentality like this -- but this, at least, he’d like to hear from the ones that matter. _I understand. Just… not yet._

There’s no judgement in his companion’s voice, no reproach. Just acquiescence. _Alright. Want to hear about anything else?_

 _Everything_ , Prowl says, grasping at the prospect to steady himself. _How many were saved? Injured? We had limited intel for the attacks, are the Prime and Protector safe? How fared the outer cities and the other regions?_

 _Camena Prime is injured, but stable, and the Lord Protector was in Helex at the time of the attack. We haven’t been able to contact her, but given Prime’s state we’re hoping she’s still alive as well._  They reach the end of a long, winding street, coming to a stop at the mouth of a dimly-lit tunnel large enough Nightstalker could probably fly through it with ease, the directions above marked in glyphs Prowl has only seen in captures. _I’ll tell you the rest if you let me check you over, I didn’t have time for anything beyond ‘not dead’ back at the complex._

Prowl would rather not have to transform again without Delta-class dampeners in place, but at least this time he’s ready for the nausea when his frame tries to reconfigure a wing it no longer possesses. His visuals automatically shift to work with input from his remaining panels, too, though he doesn’t think his state warrants quite as worried a look as he’s immediately given. _My injuries are negligible._

A huff and a deep, long scan are all he gets for his troubles. _Yeah, that’s what that kid you were helping told us you’d said, but I ain’t naive enough to believe you._

So the young mech did make it. Good. _He would not have left otherwise._

 _I’m not saying you did the wrong thing._  He steps closer, pulling a battered repair kit from subspace so casually Prowl nearly misses it. _Ta-da!_ , he thinks, and stands still so the clipped lines on his leg can be sealed. _Just saying it’s not gonna fly with me._

There isn’t much Prowl can say to that without bursting this little bubble of… whatever this is, pretending there is nothing they need to talk about. They both know the other knows, that much is clear, but the rest… well.

Prowl’s never been good at interacting with others, but he feels fairly confident this mess is not, for once, to blame on him.

 _Very well_ , is what he settles for, in the end, and steps away once the last of his lines is sealed. This close and with both of them standing, the height difference is a stark contrast from their first meeting, though not quite as dramatic as it was then. _I believe I was promised answers._

 _More than once_ , he nearly adds, and knows from the flash of that visor he is not alone with that thought.

There’s the hint of a smile to go with it, though, melancholy as it may be. _I believe I did do some promising. Mind hearing it on the road?_

In lieu of flicking his wings, Prowl transforms silently, waits for the other mech to join him before he begins driving towards the other side.

 _So, answers_ , is the eloquent start, but Prowl remains quiet most of the drive, only speaking up to ask for explanations, further details, and is grateful for the distance the tunnels afford them, for not having to control his energy field even as he keeps it close to himself. There are many cycles until Tyger Pax, but once they reach the end of their journey there will be no time to grieve.

Behind them, above them, the world as they know it rewrites itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a brief explanation on how this fic's Cybertron works, see the author's notes for the series. For a not-so-brief explanation, follow the link you'll find there. If that still doesn't make much sense, feel free to come yell at me in the comments about how that's not how governments work and I have [ruined Jazz/Prowl FOREVER](http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Ruined_FOREVER), because honestly, you're probably right.
> 
> We're finally nearing the finish line! They grow up so fast. c':


	6. frame thy fearful symmetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck, you guys, it's actually _done_. This has taken nearly as long to finish as my college degree, but it's been 10000% worth it. Thank you so much for hanging on.
> 
> As always, this is for [lostandtold](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lostandtold) with all my love. Thank you for being such a sweet, patient, loving friend, honeypie. I really hope you like it. All the thanks to [akisawana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/akisawana) as well for reading this over for me despite her feelings for Prowl/Jazz in general and the punchable qualities of Prowl's face in particular. You're the sunglasses emoji, man.

The following cycles (days, really) are absolute chaos.

The remaining Primes and Protectors perform admirably considering the situation, but the truth of it is that the planet is a _mess_. None of them could’ve possibly prepared for the Lord High Protector declaring war on their own government, turning their forces on the people he's been sparked to protect -- for him to shut down the bond to his sparkmate, his _Prime_.

It is perhaps most telling that it was Optimus’ abrupt, near-fatal collapse during a diplomatic summit in Protihex that heralded the disaster just moments before it came; Ratchet’s quick action is the only reason Optimus is alive, let alone stable by the time Jazz leaves for Praxus. Between the attacks and the loss of Grid servers, the news of it doesn’t spread far once Ultra Magnus’ lot close ranks around their Prime, but Jazz only breathes easily when he’s informed the big guy is awake once more, Prowl’s silent relief mirroring his own.

They come out of the tunnels on the outskirts of southern Tyger Pax, just a few levels off the surface. Linking to what remains of the Grid is easier the closer they get, or at least it is for him; while Jazz has priority access even with emergency restrictions, Prowl’s Enforcer status is little help so far from his district’s servers, which in any case have mostly been destroyed. Magnus is bound to have a fit if he ever finds out Jazz let Prowl link through him, but the way the mech’s field _flares_ with relief once he’s assured his creators have logged in as safe somewhere near central Kalis makes it worth a lifetime of punishment, were any actually to come.

All in all, it takes almost a full day for them to reach the nearest checkpoint.

 

 

In a sea of haywire fields and anxious faces, Alegoria is a lone, steady island. Mechs of all types and classes flock to them like a beacon, Elita One’s quiet self-assurance echoed in her creation, as unshakeable as the foundations of Seeker eyries, and even Jazz can’t help but feel comforted as he makes a beeline for them, Praxian in tow.

It takes but a moment for Alegoria to notice them, another for them to gently disengage from the crowd, a tall green and gold submarine silently taking their place.

“You made it”, they say, relief clear in their voice. Their hands reach for Jazz to brush their fingertips together, but the touch is brief as their gaze falls to Prowl, wings spreading slightly at the sight of his injuries before they shift into a subdued greeting. “And now I understand the delay. Nightstalker’s creation, I presume?”

Prowl’s face relaxes minutely in response to whatever Alegoria pings him, and Jazz has to bite back a disapproving noise when his remaining sensor panels briefly sketch the shape of a delta as closely as they can. _I am_ , Prowl confirms through shortwave radio. _I apologise if my retrieval caused any undue complications._

“The only thing you should be sorry for is letting a building collapse on you”, Jazz says with a flash of his visor, aiming for humour and falling uncomfortably close to shaken. Prowl’s one upper wing tilts, just slightly, but he seems to think better of whatever he was about to reply and simply nods instead. Feeling oddly wrong-footed, Jazz turns to Alegoria, only to find himself yet again under too-knowing optics, though theirs are easier to bear than Prowl’s. “I gotta rendezvous with Ironhide, but Prowler here’s running near empty, and we really need a medic to check out his leg and that missing wing, do you think--?”

“I’ll take care of it”, Alegoria assures him, and takes a half step back for Prowl to stand at their side. “Tidal Wave should be somewhere around here -- Triage has only the most severely injured in the medical tent. Should we go on to Synum without you?”

 _Yes_ , Jazz nearly says. He makes the mistake of looking at Prowl as he’s about to say it, however, and he can’t say he doesn’t understand what he finds in his optics, this time -- can’t say he doesn’t know it’s reflected in his own, even if he’s slightly terrified of naming it.

He did just drive halfway around the planet because of it, after all.

“No”, he says, not skipping a beat, and he’s sure Alegoria notices it’s only when Jazz manages to look away that Prowl steps to their side, but they’re thankfully polite enough to pretend otherwise. “No, just get him to Ky-Alexia, Hightower ought to have arrived by then. You go where you need to and we’ll find each other there.”

Alegoria nods, wings flicking back delicately, and briefly holds Jazz’s hand again. “Very well. I’ll go find Tidal Wave and inform Starsong of the change of plans.” Then they add, a hint of Elita’s gentle teasing in their field, “I shall leave you to your goodbyes.”

Jazz refuses to rise to the bait, but Prowl, ever-polite, cants his damned wings in a nod again; whether he’s ignoring, acknowledging, or just oblivious to the implications in Alegoria’s farewell, Jazz can’t really tell.

 _Alegoria’s a good one_ , Jazz finds himself saying, field suddenly buzzing with unexplainable nerves. _They’ll keep you in one piece until you get to Ky-A, falling buildings notwithstanding. Er, pun unintended._

Prowl... doesn’t smile, precisely, but there’s something softer about the way he holds himself, and in spite of the dozens and dozens of mechs milling around them and the way they both have to tilt their heads to hold each other’s gaze, it all feels… oddly intimate. _It is alright. My creators mentioned them on occasion, though we never met in person. I am familiar with some of their younger siblings, however._

 _Good_ , Jazz says quietly. _That’s good._ He wishes briefly, impossibly, that the drive through the tunnels had never ended, that he’d had more time to prepare for this conversation, even if he’s not sure another lifetime would be long enough. _Listen, I know there’s still things to say, he finally manages, and I’m better at promising answers than I am at giving them, but…_

Those golden optics lock onto his own, both hopeful and hesitant. _Yes?_

 _When we meet in Ky-Alexia_ , Jazz says, against every instinct and choice he has followed so far, and loosens his field just enough to brush against Prowl’s, the slightest hint of this whatever-it-is blooming between them, gentle, fragile. _We’ll talk_. He manages a smile, just for Prowl. _Tackle me again, if you have to._

It startles a silent laugh out of Prowl, his field and his mouth softening for a moment, even if his wings and vocaliser are too damaged for anything else, and Jazz’s spark aches for the sudden tenderness the sight rouses in him.

 _I will hold you to it_ , Prowl promises, quiet, sweet, and pulls his field in as he senses Alegoria and Tidal Wave’s approach, tilts his wings in farewell. _Safe travels._

Jazz’s smile smooths into something practiced, reassuring, and he nods at the other two as they reach Prowl’s side. “Fair skies”, he replies, and pretends walking away doesn’t feel like he’s wrenching his own spark from its chamber.

Pretends he doesn’t feel like he’s leaving it behind.

 

 

It takes several weeks for them to see each other again, and they are the longest of Jazz’s life. He spends that time pinballing from one region to another, smuggling mechs and information out of fallen territory, and helping Optimus coordinate the creation of a fragging _army_ , since Megatron took the existing one when he decided to go postal and start an actual, legitimate civil war.

Not that Jazz is still reeling from it or anything.

By the time he can get away he’s acquired a brand new insignia, a newfound dread of Seekers, and recharging patterns that would drive lesser mechs to insanity. He’s half braced to be dragged away for a game of Twenty Questions the second he gets to Ky-Alexia, too, but also half worried about being told Nightstalker’s trine stole Prowl away to Primus knows where the second they found out their creation had survived.

He finds what he _thought_ would be as much of a disaster zone as any other Autobot camp he’s passed has been somehow turned into a small fortress, instead, people coming and going in a surprisingly orderly fashion, and barely a spark not zooming about.

He’s got a deep suspicion and a helpless smile both tugging at him, but he bites them back and comms Hightower instead.

 _So I know you’re efficient and all_ , Jazz opens with, because why bother with a greeting when he can be irreverent instead, _but I gotta say, I really am impressed this time. What’d they put in the energon in Altihex, steamrolling powder?_

He can practically feel Hightower’s optic roll, but his voice is reassuringly sarcastic, if tired. _You can thank your Praxian for it -- he’s the one who’s taken over people-wrangling so Racetrack and I can coordinate with Fractionation’s lot. I don’t know where you found him, but you need to go back and get another dozen._

_That good, huh?_

_Better. Magnus has already requested we bring him with us when we go_ \-- twice. _Race has got credits going that Jurisprudence might actually swoon._

The urge to smile fades, just a little. _That I’d like to see._

_Wouldn’t we all. You’re a little early, in any case, we’ve got some time before Transistor arrives. Want me to bring your mech in?_

_No, it’s fine. Just gimme directions, I’ll find him myself._

_Can do_. The local servers must’ve already been set up, because there’s barely any delay between Hightower’s words and the ping Jazz receives on the nascent Autobot Grid. The base AI, who introduces themselves as Swift, gives him a map of the area and a surprisingly long personnel list, pointing him at a supply cache towards the center of the base.

Less than a station ago, the blocky, nondescript prefab where Prowl was last logged would have stuck out like a bent fender just by daring exist within Tyger Pax’s borders; even at the outskirts of Ky-Alexia, abandoned since the days of the crystal rust epidemic, the exquisitely intricate colour work on the remaining buildings bursts radiant like summer blooms, the last trace of life in a city of ghosts. A few steps from the entrance, Prowl stands with a red and black airframe -- Aileron, according to her tag -- the two of them listening attentively to another Praxian and occasionally pausing to give instructions to some of the bustling mecha.

It’s been long enough since they last saw each other that Prowl’s sensor panel has not only been replaced, but integrated fully, the chromatophores the same pristine white on the new wing as they are on its twin, though he’s added some black details to his scheme ever since. The brand new Autobot sigil gleams on his shoulder where his precinct’s markers used to be, the same vibrant red as his chevron.

He looks… good. Confident. At ease.

Last time Jazz recharged was three days ago somewhere in Polyhex, and he hasn’t had time to dust off his plating in an entire week. He tells himself it’s not running away when the enemy’s at an advantage, just making a strategic retreat, and slips back into the crowd to find Hightower before Prowl can notice him.

 

 

The thing is, Jazz _wants_ Prowl to like him.

He’s fully aware avoiding him is not exactly the road to success, but-- embarrassing as it is, he can’t help but feel a little self-conscious, especially in face of Hightower’s praise and Ultra Magnus all but calling dibs on the mech without having even met him.

Whoever Jazz once was is scattered throughout layers and layers of identities he’s never really owned, worn down by dedication to little else but his work, and after so long refusing to stay still long enough to weld the pieces, he’s not sure there’s much of him _to_ like. He doesn’t even _know_ what the future holds, doesn’t know if they’ll make it to the next day at all, and yet… he knows he wants Prowl near for it. He wants those glimpses of humour and warmth like that day on the train -- wants another dance, like that time in the lift, a flash of surprise and just a hint of playfulness in those golden optics, wants that shared joy in an unexpected game that had felt like being _alive_ more than anything else in ages.

It really figures after so long just existing, he’d find something to _live for_ at the dawn of a goddamn war.

 

 

There’s no pouncing involved, this time around, but it seems fitting that once again, it is Prowl who finds _him._

He’s not sure whether he’s losing his edge with exhaustion or some hidden part of him is making him slip in hopes of just getting it over with, but the end result is still the same. The door to one of the balconies slides shut behind him a moment too late, a larger shadow than his own darkening the doorstep before it does, and all of a sudden, when he turns, Prowl is there.

It’s been days of being allegedly incognito but really just delaying the inevitable, and it’s not like he hasn’t _seen_ Prowl in the past few days, especially given the way he’s steadily made himself invaluable to their newborn cause, but there’s a difference between catching a glimpse across the base and actually _looking_. Jazz has spent so long at the fringes he almost isn’t sure what to do once he’s got him right in front of him and on their own.

Almost. In face of the intent way Prowl is watching him, though, Jazz figures he’s allowed a proper look, too.

Jazz is faster, still -- will likely always be, unless Prowl goes through some serious reformatting and modding -- but Prowl’s gotten… significantly taller. He’s comfortable with himself, now, something lithe and carefully calculated about his movements, and he _fits_ that gorgeous Praxian frame, wings held high and steady, his gaze too knowing by half. There’s a lot of Atlas, in there, traces of Diction in his hands and Nightstalker in his accent, but where the three of them always seemed larger than life, Prowl is as subtle and inescapable as the pull of a star, and Jazz wonders, not quite idly, if he’d be able to get away if he were caught by it.

Really, if he’s being honest with himself, he knows he already is.

“Word is Prime wants you in headquarters”, Jazz mentions conversationally, because anything is better than the anticipation buzzing over his plating.

“I am aware”, Prowl replies, tilting his head.

Jazz huffs, amused. “Of course you are. So why haven’t you accepted?”

And Prowl says, like it’s really that simple: “Because first we need to talk.”

Jazz’s spark stops, or combusts, or possibly creates a rift in spacetime where the world has gone upside down and he’s both alive and dead at the same time.

“I guess we do”, he agrees, and manages to sound confident about it.

Neither of them actually speaks, however, and eventually Jazz gives him an uncertain look.

“Aren’t you gonna ask anything?”

Prowl blinks. “I… thought you were the one with something to say.”

“Honestly, I kind of assumed I was getting jumped and interrogated the second you got me close enough”, Jazz admits, and watches in fascination as Prowl’s expression goes from polite confusion to a level of deadpan that would make Ratchet cry with pride.

“Contrary to what you may believe, my creators _did_ eventually manage to teach me not to tackle people at will”, he drawls, the Vosnian edge to his voice far more noticeable when he’s being a sarcastic pain in the aft, much to Jazz’s delight. “Though if you really insist on it, I am sure an interrogation could be arranged.”

Jazz grins. “I think I’ll pass, but thanks. How about I just start at the beginning, and if you have any questions you interrupt at will?”

Prowl flicks a wing, nods for good measure. “That is acceptable.”

“Alright”, Jazz says, nerves flaring once more, though they’re thankfully easier to tame this time. “So, the thing is, we weren’t supposed to meet at all”, Jazz starts, perching on the edge of the balcony, one foot hooked around the railing. Prowl comes to stand a couple of steps away, his back to the wall, head tilted to meet Jazz’s gaze. “I was sparked as a personal aide for Amor Prime -- sort of like Ultra Magnus was for Optimus, though I was never meant to hold any administrative position. It was easier to just keep the job after he passed, and in time it became a behind the scenes sort of gig. I’ve been with Optimus since he and Megatron were sparked.”

Understanding dawns in Prowl’s face. “So the first time we met... You were never just a courier, were you?”

Jazz smiles, though there’s not really a lot of humour in it. “No, though I did do deliveries when required. I wasn’t even on the job at the time, just doing Elita One a favour.”

“The zoo, then?”, Prowl asks, the slightest furrow to his mouth. “That time in Atlas’ office, and the train? Was all that…?”

“ _No_ ”, Jazz says immediately, field flaring with the intensity of it. “Or-- yes, but just the time at the zoo. I was in the city when the bombing happened, and Nightstalker contacted me when they realised you were gone. The other two were just coincidences.” He shoots the mech a half smile, fragile under the weight of truth. “You caught me off guard, that time on the lift. I only realised who you were when the door was about to close.”

It takes a moment, but Prowl’s wings eventually flicker in an answering smile, brief and self-conscious. “I didn’t realise at the time. Nor on the train, either. Not until you found me during the attack.”

“You did hit your head pretty hard”, Jazz teases, and is rewarded with another flicker of wings, lapsing into a short silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”, Prowl finally asks. “On the train, I mean. I would’ve been surprised, maybe, but…” He hesitates for the first time in the entire conversation, and Jazz’s spark blooms with warmth.

“Yeah?”, he prompts softly.

Prowl doesn’t shrug, but he still manages to give off the impression of it, just shy of self-conscious. “I would have welcomed your company. Especially considering the circumstances.”

“You’d… have wanted me there?”, Jazz asks, visor flashing in surprise.

Prowl frowns at him like he’s being purposefully dense. “Of course I would have.”

There’s entire libraries worth of poetry saying why caring so openly is dangerous, Jazz thinks, but doesn’t dare tell him. Prowl grew up around sparkmates, after all -- of course he believes in love like it isn’t goddamn _terrifying_.

“Well, then”, he says in the end, because it’s better than gathering him up and guarding him from any sparkbreak, “any other questions?”

Prowl looks thoughtful, claws drumming on his arm. “Just the one.” His hands fall to his side, and sharp fingertips flash with a showy flick of his wrist.

On his open palm rests a small brass sphere.

It’s all Jazz can do to keep his field from going haywire. “Ah.”

Prowl falters slightly in response to whatever he sees in Jazz’s face, an edge of hesitance creeping into his optics. Jazz wants to cradle his face and promise him a thousand impossible forevers until that uncertain look goes away.

“Say the word”, Prowl promises quietly, the words hanging fragile between them. “Tell me to go, and I will not ask again. But...”

“Yeah?”, Jazz whispers.

And Prowl says simply, softly, so near and yet astronomically far, “I’d still like to know your name.”

There are three hundred and fifty seven variations on the glyph he gave that little sparkling a lifetime ago. Jazz has them all memorised, their derivatives and deviations, the way dialects twist them one way or another, just enough to fit whoever he needs to be any given day. Last time he told anyone his chosen designation, he’d just walked out of the Well for Amor Prime.

For all it started with a moment of distraction, with a newspark thinking to play, this -- whatever _this_ is, if there’s even a name for it -- got away from them a long time ago. Somewhere along the road it stopped being a game, because (as Jazz has come to learn) Prowl is incapable of leaving anything well enough alone, and in a lifetime of only following his own rules, Jazz broke the most important of them all.

He went and got attached.

There’s an endless moment that feels like ages, like no time at all, and then Jazz retracts his visor, uncaring of his hypersensitive optics protesting the bright lights above, and meets Prowl’s gaze directly for the first time since they met.

He feels as though standing at the edge of an abyss, exhilarated and caught between terror and trust. “ _Jazz_ ”, he says, and means _rhythm, improvisation_ , means, “ _Joy in life_.”

And Prowl, impossible, clever Prowl -- _sweetspark, Hunter, he who chases, ‘relentless towards light’_

( _sparksong,_ whispers something deep inside him) --

Prowl’s answering smile is _everything._

“ _Jazz_ ”, Prowl repeats, and Jazz’s spark stops, reshapes itself around his name in Prowl’s voice, starts its spin once again as though he isn’t _dying_ and more alive he’s ever felt all at once, knowing that smile is just _his_. “It suits you.”

“Yeah?”, Jazz says, brittle and bursting and fairly sure this is how stars feel as they flare and cry out to the void.

Prowl’s optics soften, not quite shy but _fond_ , painfully sweet, “Yes.”

“I’m glad”, Jazz says, and means it.

They both fall silent, the air comfortable yet expectant, that breath before leaping into the air. Prowl’s holding onto the turnbox still, fingertips tracing one of the ridges where its lines meet, the brass well-polished even after rotations of handling. And Jazz...

Jazz takes a breath, and takes the leap.

“So, Prowler”, he says, and golden optics find his own as though they never left, “I gotta wonder -- what do hunters do when they catch their prey?”

He’d call it alchemy, if he had to. There’s nothing visible about the change in Prowl’s gaze, yet he can see, for just a fraction of a moment, a glint, a glimpse, of some complicated want.

“That depends, I suppose”, Prowl says carefully, slowly, that hint of a Vosnian accent liquid music in his voice, “on whether their quarry wishes to be caught.”

He manages an impressive show of calm, Jazz thinks, considering his spark is about to go nova from so much honesty in such a short time. “And if they do?”

“If they do”, Prowl says, quiet, low, “then…”

Jazz tilts his head back, uncaring of the fall waiting under him as Prowl steps right onto his space. There’s nothing wrong with his vocaliser, yet his voice is barely more than a rough whisper. “Yeah?”

Prowl stops, their faces bare millimetres from each other, fields brushing in and out of contact with each minute movement, half torture and half tease. “I’d quite like to find out”, he murmurs, with just the hint of a smile. “Wouldn't you?”

“Oh, for the love of-- just c’mere”, Jazz sighs, lips curving upwards against his will, and tugs down that laughing face to meet his own.

 

 

It ends with a kiss.

Well, to be fair, that’s not quite true. It ends with a kiss, and another, and too many to count.

It ends with a new start.


End file.
